Selected Detective
THE KALANDIAN REFUGEE CAMP

LAYLA AL-MADANI fixed her black hair and looked at the young man sitting opposite her, wearing neat trousers and a T-shirt reading ‘Stone Dome’. “Gagasan killing women and children does not attract your attention?” The young man returned his gaze.

“Does anyone care about the people of Israel when our women and children are killed? Dar Yassin's? Sabra and Chatila? The rafah? It's war, madam, and in war many bad things happen.”

“So, if Al-mulatham approaches you...”.

“I'll take it as an honor. To be martyred, to sacrifice myself for my people, my Lord. I'll consider myself so lucky.” He was a handsome man, with wide brown eyes and the hands of a piano player, long and wiry.

Layla was interviewing him for an article about the looter of antic goods of a Palestinian youth who, due to the economic power of the Israeli nation on Palestinian territory, had been reduced to stealing and selling ancient artifacts in order to...

Meeting the needs of life. That conversation has, as is common in a wide variety of interviews, turned to a wider discussion of Israeli occupation or military attacks, and ultimately, of course, to the topic of suicide bombings.

“Look at me!” he said, moving his head. “See this!” He turned his hand, pointing at the house with a cheap three-bedroom cinder block, with its cots combined as a bed and a small stove in the corner of the room.

“Our family had a vineyard near Bethlehem, 200 dunums. Then the Zionists came, drove us out and we only had this. I had an academic degree of engineer, but didn't get a job because the Israelis had closed my work permit. So, I sold stolen antiques to keep eating. Do you think this makes me feel good? Do you think I have high hopes for my future?

Believe me, if the chance to kill myself came to me, I would. The more I kill the better. Women, children, it makes no difference. They're all wrong. I hate them. Everything.”

He smiled faintly, a bitter expression that broke the bottom of his face, revealing both indignation and despair. Then they fell silent for a while and were torn apart by the sounds of children playing along the alley outside. Then Layla closed her notebook and put it back in the bag.

“Thank you, Yunis.” The man shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

Layla soon meets her driver Kamel outside, then together the two get out of the campground, sliding down the highway. cars swirled through potholes and the main Ramallah– Jerusalem lane where they joined traffic lines that had stalled behind a Kalandia military guard post. On their left flank, the encampment building stretched all the way to the edge of the hill, gray and dilapidated like a pile of broken corals. On their right flank, the runway of Atarot airport looked flat and dead, as if someone had broken a dirty yellow painted line on the landscape. In front of him, four traffic lanes that had been stopped on the road were like dusty ribbons, shrinking into a single lane on an Israeli road, two hundred meters ahead, where documents were being examined and vehicles investigated. This is a pointless exercise anyone who does not have the required documents will easily skirt the military guard post on foot and hitch a ride on the other side but the Israelis forcing this to be done not for security reasons but rather to insult the Palestinians, showing who is in power among them. No one is disobedient to us, that's the message. We are in control.

“Kosominumhum kul il-Israelieen!” layla murmured, leaning her head back and looking at the ceiling of the car. “Israeli fucker!”

Twenty minutes passed, the queue still remained as it was, and finally, by opening the car door, the woman came out. He paced back and forth, stretched his legs, then got back in the car and pulled out his camera, a digital Nikkon D1X, removed the wrapper and turned on and set the lens.

“Be careful!” kamel exclaimed, his head stuck forward at the wheel waiting for his turn in the long line. “You know what happened the last time you took a photo at a military guard post?” How could he forget? The Israeli army had seized his camera, spent an hour inspecting Kamel's car and, for the sake of good procedure, gave him the mark ’already checked’ as well.

“I'll be careful,” he said. “Trust!” A large brown eye glared at him.

“Civil Miss, you're the most unbelievable person I know. With your face romance, you said one thing, but..”.

“Yes, yes, there are always different things in my eyes.” Layla showed an annoyed look and, hanging a camera around her neck, turned around and walked between rows of vehicles heading for the military guard post, leaving Jerusalem early the previous afternoon, drive to Ramallah to cover the story of a Palestinian accomplice whose body piece was found floating in a downtown fountain, the perfect vantage point for his feature writing about the accomplices, the one he worked for the Guardian.it only took him a few hours to research. While they were there, there was another suicide bombing of Al-Mulatham at a wedding in Tel Aviv. Israel then shut down the entire West Bank, giving him no choice but to please himself with an old college friend, who at the same time an American-made Ah-64 Apache gun helicopter had been waiting at the top, it opened fire on a Palestinian building that had been half destroyed since the last time they shot it.

This is not a waiting activity that is entirely in vain. He raised the story of the looting of antiquities and had arranged an interview with Sa’eb marsudi, one of the leaders of the First Intifada and a star that began to shine in the light of Palestinian politics. He was a charismatic young, passionate, handsome man, with black hair and keffiyeh twisted around his neck and as always, has given him some important notes.

Now, as it turns out, Layla is anxious to return to Jerusalem. Chayalei David, the David Fighters, has taken control of a building in the Old City, which sounds like a good feature.

Layla, meanwhile, had already exceeded the deadline given by Al-Ahram when she was finalizing an article on malnutrition in Palestinian children. More than anything, he just wanted to quickly return to his apartment, immediately the IDf bath had cut off the water supply to Ramallah and he had not cleaned himself perfectly since the previous morning. A slightly acidic smell rippled from his blouse and trousers.

He had written about such a situation more than ten years ago, published in Arabic and English, writing for anything from the Guardian to al-Ahram, from the Palestinian Times to the New Internationalist. After the events that befell his father, it was not easy for him to establish himself, especially in the early days after his return from England, when he had to readjust. However, he has worked hard to gain the trust of the people, to prove himself, to show that he is a true Palestinian, and although there will always be those like Kamel who will never fully believe, in the end, most of them can accept themselves, influenced by their openness to the Palestinians. “Assadiqa”, so they call him now, the one who always says the truth.The Israelis seem not too excited.

“Looh”, “Jewish scribe”, “Terroris” and “Female ***** who always interfered”, are a few of the nicknames and new names that he has held for many years. And all that

really the sweetest.

Layla pulls a pack of gum from her pocket and chews on the contents, wondering if she should go to the military guard post and show her press ID, trying to speed things up. But he would be a waste of time, with or without a press card would not change the fact that he is a Palestinian. He observed the situation for a while longer, and then turned to the path he had been on, shaking his head in annoyance.

The ground he was treading shook as a pair of merkava tanks crossed the road opposite him, a blue and white Israeli flag fluttering from his small tower.

“Kosominumhum kul il-Israeliien,” murmured.

*

*

*

*

*

*****_____*****

Also Read Other Novels Guys "Love of the Old Virgin"

Theme Story about “Love the family is too spoiled and excessive to the big bar boy with a rebellious soul, who met the hard-hearted and wealthy noble lady. Until finally changing the mindset of living alone and do not want to be responsible about anything. Finally had to fall in love with her uncle. Follow the story must be fun...

*Coments and suggestions in the comments column are needed, and do not forget Vote yes…*

By the way, Enjoy it

Follow Instagram on: @itsme.okta

Thanks in Advanced

Best Regards

*****